


Unraveling

by irisdouglasiana



Category: The Alienist (TV)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Canon Compliant, Gen, Post-Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:29:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25927420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisdouglasiana/pseuds/irisdouglasiana
Summary: Summer is just a memory now: the days grow shorter, each a little colder than the one that came before. In the early mornings before the frost melts from the windows, Sara arrives before her employees to open the office and prepare for the day ahead. She ties back the curtains, dusts the windowsills, and sweeps the floor.She thinks she should be done with Libby Hatch. Libby Hatch is not done with her.
Relationships: Sara Howard & Libby Hatch
Comments: 7
Kudos: 11





	Unraveling

Summer is just a memory now: the days grow shorter, each a little colder than the one that came before. In the early mornings before the frost melts from the windows, Sara arrives before her employees to open the office and prepare for the day ahead. She ties back the curtains, dusts the windowsills, and sweeps the floor, all the while checking carefully to ensure that nobody has been there during the night. She tells herself it is not paranoia, not after what Libby Hatch did. She never finds anything missing, but sometimes she thinks objects have been moved slightly. A stack of papers sitting askew on the desk, a book left open when it should have been closed. _Must be rats, Miss Howard,_ Bitsy says. _You know the city is full of them._

They have their pick of cases these days, good ones, and the accolades and publicity keep pouring in. Even Hearst’s rag pays its respects, however begrudgingly. They make enough profit to take on the pro bono cases they never had the capacity to do before; to help people who have nowhere else to turn to. By all accounts, the detective agency has been a success. She has nearly everything she could have asked for.

Sara picks up the chalk and stares hard at the blank chalkboard. She should start writing up the notes for the next case and begin designing her approach. She should be making decisions about which of her employees to assign and which of her contacts will be most useful. There are reams of evidence to review and, as always, time is the rarest and most precious of commodities. Her father’s watch sits heavy in her pocket, relentlessly ticking away.

She sets the chalk against the board and draws a single unblinking eye.

**

Lengthy letters arrive from Vienna every week. Laszlo’s observations are detailed and precise as one would expect—the places, the people, the history. He forms each word in small and deliberate letters. Sometimes as she reads she imagines a boy with brown hair and dark eyes hunched over his desk and concentrating fiercely as he teaches himself to write with his left hand. Starting over is something Laszlo has always understood better than her.

He only mentions Karen Stratton in passing, if he even mentions her in the first place. Sara wonders if he is happy. She hopes he is. She hopes he does not regret his choice. She hopes that when he lies down beside her and they turn out the lights, he does not look at her silhouette in the dark and see the ghost of someone else.

She finishes reading his most recent letter and sets it aside. She picks up her pen and writes on a scrap of paper, _Laszlo, my dear friend, did you leave New York to start over or to run away?_ Then she burns it.

**

From John she hears nothing at all.

**

She makes house calls when time permits. In a beautiful and well-guarded mansion, the Vanderbilt baby can now sit up and wave his arms and laugh; in the Spanish consulate, the Linares baby has learned to crawl. She sits in Señora Linares’s parlor on a beautiful morning in late October and watches her bouncing baby Ana on her lap, and she thinks about Martha Napp’s baby, who will never grow any older.

“That woman,” Señora Linares says. "What will they do to her?”

Sara sets aside her tea. “The trial will begin in a month. She might plead insanity, but I do not think she will.”

“You feel sorry for her?”

She gazes down at her hands. “We shared certain commonalities in our backgrounds,” she confesses. “In her, I saw what I might have been, if my own circumstances had been a little different.”

The señora presses her lips together. “They are going to kill her.”

“Does the thought of that bring you satisfaction?”

The baby sputters and starts to cry, chubby hands grasping at the air. The señora murmurs at her in Spanish before looking back at Sara. “Sometimes, I think of what she did to our family, and I am so angry,” she says softly. “I want her to suffer for the pain she inflicted on us, for all those sleepless nights where I did not know where my child was or if she was still alive. But other times, I think that it is already too late to undo the hurt she caused. Killing her will not bring back those other babies she took. It will only soothe the feelings of the living for a little while. And then we will return to our old lives and create new Libby Hatches.”

Sara opens her mouth to speak, but no words come out. Baby Ana wails and wails.

That night, she falls asleep in her empty bed and she dreams she is back in the matron’s apartment, seated at the kitchen table. To her left, the matron sits slumped over in her nightgown, splattered in blood. Across from her, Libby hums softly as she pours the tea for the three of them. Sara finds herself focusing on the matron’s tea set: sky blue porcelain, slightly chipped. “Sugar?” Libby asks.

“No thank you,” Sara whispers.

She drops a sugar cube into Sara’s tea anyway, and then another. “Liar,” she says. “You always take sugar in your tea. You lied to me, Sara. Just like my mother lied. I should have known. Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

She stares down at her tea. The sugar cube is dissolving into blood at the bottom of the cup. “I lied to protect the children. I know I hurt you. That was not my desire.”

Libby laughs softly. “Still lying, even when you don’t have to. You got what you wanted.” Her pale eyes turn hard. “Drink your tea.”

Sara takes a long, shuddering breath. “I don’t want the tea. I want you out of my head.”

Libby looks at her with pity. “Sara, you still don’t understand,” she says. “You’re in _my_ head.”

**

 _My dear Laszlo,_ she begins, _I have had such terrible dreams of late, and I do not know how to rid myself of them. I am afraid—_ She lifts her pen from the page, uncertain how to continue.

“Miss Howard?” Bitsy interrupts. She jumps at the sound of her voice. “Sorry. Lucius is here to see you.”

She rubs her forehead. “Is he? Please show him in, Bitsy.”

Lucius gives her a hesitant smile as he walks through the door and sits down across from her. There are bags under his eyes and he has clearly lost weight in the last few months since she saw him. She knows from Bitsy that he quit the force for good in the weeks after they closed the Hatch case. If she were him, she supposes she would have done the same.

She sets aside her letter and smiles back. “Lucius, this is most unexpected, but I am glad to see you.”

He removes his hat, toying with the brim. “Sara, I—there is something I need to tell you. Two things. Actually.”

The silence stretches on for a very long moment, and finally she prompts him. “Is it about the Libby Hatch case?” she asks gently.

He gives her a quick nod. “I can’t testify,” he blurts out.

She frowns. “I don’t understand, Lucius. Your testimony is absolutely essential; it was you and Marcus who identified the poison, and you witnessed Libby Hatch and Goo Goo Knox breaking into the Institute—”

“I know,” he says quickly. “Now that Marcus is—gone—I’m the only one who can do it. But…” he trails off and removes his glasses, and she sees his eyes are swollen and red. When he speaks again, she can barely hear him. “I _can’t_. Talk about that night.”

“Lucius—”

“There’s something else,” he interrupts. He stares down at his hands. “Byrnes approached me not long after we recovered the body of the Napp baby. He asked for…information about the Linares case. And I told him.”

Her heart is beating quickly now, one of the last pieces of the puzzle finally falling into place. Back then, there had been no time to find out how the news of the missing Linares child had found its way into Hearst’s paper. “Why?”

“He threatened Marcus,” Lucius answers in a dull voice. “I’m not sure what he would have done. Tried to end his career, I suppose. You know how important that was to him.”

“Did Marcus know?”

He gives her a thoroughly miserable look. “I told him, but nobody else. I know I shouldn’t have done it, I just—I wanted to protect him. None of that matters anymore, though.”

“Byrnes, I’ll—” She won’t say what she wants to do to Byrnes. It will not help Lucius, nor anyone else. “I’m not angry with you,” she says instead, though of course she is: his poor judgment nearly compromised the entire case and now he refuses to even testify, how could she not be angry about that? She takes a moment to compose herself and think about what she wants to say to him.

“Lucius, I understand this is very difficult for you,” she begins. She feels ill-suited for this conversation; she wishes Laszlo were here to handle it instead. Or John. “But for Marcus’s sake, for the sake of Martha Napp and her baby and all the others, you _must_ testify.”

“I told you, I can’t,” he says roughly. Before she can say another word, he puts on his hat and walks out.

She sits back in her chair, closes her eyes, and resists the urge to throw something. She will talk to Bitsy, ask her to try to convince him, and if she can’t…

“He’ll ruin everything,” Libby mutters in her ear. “You need him if you want me to fry.”

“Leave me alone.”

“You’ll be there when the time comes, won’t you, Sara? Maybe they’ll let you stand behind the curtain and pull the lever yourself.”

“Leave me alone!”

From the other side of the office, Bitsy calls out, “Miss Howard?”

Sara opens her eyes and forces herself to relax her clenched fists. Libby is not there. She is sitting alone in a cell awaiting her trial. “It’s nothing, Bitsy,” she calls back.

She looks down at her unfinished letter to Laszlo, at the last words she put on the page. _I am afraid._

**

In her dream, they strap her into the electric chair as she stares out helplessly at a sea of faces. Markoe and Hearst and Byrnes are there in the front row, and Laszlo and John are seated towards the middle, and off to the side she even sees her parents. They watch silently, their expressions betraying nothing. They have not come here to save her.

“If you have any last words, now is the time,” the faceless man at her side says. He tightens the straps around her wrists and the leather bites into her skin.

Towards the very back of the room, she catches a glimpse of bright red hair. “Libby!” she cries out before they place a piece of cloth over her face. The world goes dark.

Somewhere, hidden behind a curtain, a man pulls a lever.

**

She goes to see Mrs. Hunter. She has a reason for it, of course, but when Libby’s mother opens the door and gives her a look cold enough to freeze her blood, the purpose of the visit suddenly vanishes from her mind. To her surprise, she still lets her inside.

Sara takes a seat on the chair across from her, smooths down her skirt, and lets her gaze wander around the apartment. She takes in the faded wallpaper; the fabric pattern of the ancient sofa Mrs. Hunter is sitting on. Without meaning to, she finds herself searching for traces of her own mother in her face. “Your marriage was unhappy,” she begins tentatively. “You agreed to his proposal, even though you were unsure if that was what you wanted.”

Mrs. Hunter gazes at her with distaste. “It was a marriage. I did what I had to do. You girls these days, you have other ideas.”

“Your daughter is going to die,” she bursts out. “Libby will be punished for what she has done, and yet Dr. Markoe will be allowed to continue abusing poor women at the Lying In Hospital, and Hearst will still spread rumors and lies in his papers for his own gain. And you—you will finally be rid of your daughter for good, and you can return to your preferred lifestyle. Does that mean nothing to you? Do you feel no hint of remorse for your role in all of this?”

The older woman clenches her jaw. “You have no right to speak to me this way. It was no fault of mine that Elspeth turned out rotten.”

Before she can stop herself, she leaps out of the chair and shoves Mrs. Hunter up against the wall, hands wrapped around her throat. “No fault of yours!” she snarls as she tightens her grip. Mrs. Hunter’s eyes widen with fear.

She lets go and Libby’s mother stumbles back, gasping. When the older woman regains her voice, she stares at Sara with hate. “You’re just as rotten as she is,” she sneers. “I knew from the moment I first saw you. Stupid girl. Now get out of my home.”

Sara flees.

**

She calls John. She knows it is a mistake; she knows when they said their goodbyes they both meant it, and she should not reopen a door they mutually agreed to close—but she calls anyway.

Violet answers the phone after the first few rings. “Schuyler Moore residence,” she says cheerfully.

Sara hangs up without answering.

**

She does see John at the trial, in his capacity both as a reporter and a witness. They sit at the opposite ends of the same row and whenever she catches his eye, he is careful to look away neither too quickly nor too slowly. She notices the cut that Libby made on his neck has healed and scarred over. She thinks of that night and it makes her heart ache all over again. But all of that is over now. If he is unraveling like she is, he shows no trace of it.

The case the prosecutors have compiled against Elspeth Hunter, alias Libby Hatch, is not perfect, but it is comprehensive and convincing. The motives are clear and the witnesses numerous even without Lucius, and besides, Libby Hatch left in her wake a mountain of evidence pointing in one direction only. Memory boxes, mutilated dolls, bottles of poison, knives and guns, photograph after photograph of the victims. It is enough to make grown men turn pale and run out of the room.

The whispers among the audience turns to a low buzz as Sara walks to the stand to testify, but she sees none of them: only Libby staring back at her, unblinking. Her voice grows hoarse as she recounts her involvement in the case from beginning to end. The dates, the places, the people, the facts. Everything necessary to secure a conviction and kill Elspeth Hunter in the correct and legally sanctioned manner—none of it lies, but neither is it fully the truth. When she finishes her testimony and takes her seat once more, she is careful to keep her face composed and her hands still, but she cannot stop her knees from shaking.

Finally—the moment the entire room has been waiting for—they call Libby to the stand. After all those months in prison, she is pale and thin, with tangled hair limply framing her hollow face. A dozen reporters put their pens to the paper and hold their breaths as they sit forward; for a moment everything is silent, save the endless pops of the photographers in the back taking their shots.

Libby will not enter a plea, nor answer the questions the prosecutor puts to her, nor respond when the judge castigates her for making a mockery of the court. “I want my daughter,” she repeats over and over again. “Give me back my daughter.”

 _She must know,_ Sara thinks. She will not get her daughter back, not now, not ever. But she will not allow them to deflect; she will not give them the space to look away from what was taken from her. From the audience, Byrnes cries out that she has gone entirely mad and if no one else will knock some sense into her then he will—pure arrogant bluster on his part. Sara watches the back of his head with contempt as the judge shouts for order and the guards drag Libby away.

She goes outside, lights a cigarette with trembling hands, and slowly blows out the smoke. It disappears into the cold November air without a trace. She takes another drag and watches the spectators file out of the building and squeeze their way through the crowd: Byrnes whispering something in Markoe’s ear, John trailing behind Hearst and a Vanderbilt scion. After they depart, she drops the stub of her cigarette and grinds it beneath her shoes. Then she goes back inside, swiftly walking past the empty courtroom to the holding cell where they are keeping Libby until the crowd dissipates and they can safely return her to prison.

Words fail her when she sees Libby sitting on the floor of the cell with her arms wrapped about her knees. During the day, she had appeared haggard but defiant; now she looks simply worn out. “Sara,” she says quietly. “My daughter. Clara.”

“I saw her just a couple weeks ago,” she answers. Although Laszlo is no longer running the Institute, she has made a point of visiting the child regularly. “She is still quiet and does not speak much, but every time I see her I think she must be at least an inch taller. She’s a beautiful little girl, and very bright.”

Libby swallows. “Will you tell her—”

Sara waits, but Libby does not finish her sentence. She pulls her knees closer to her body and looks down, retreating back into herself. Sara wonders where she has gone: is she practicing ballet in the safety of her childhood home in Brooklyn, is she singing to her baby in Blackwell Asylum, is she wandering the halls of the Lying In Hospital in search of her next victim?

“I know,” Sara says gently. “I will tell her.”

**

Laszlo writes: _Sara, I beg you forgive my presumption, but from certain phrases and omissions in your previous letter, I gather you have become profoundly uneasy about your role in the conclusion of this case. The relationship you developed with Libby Hatch—_

She closes her eyes. In her mind, she finds herself traveling back to the prison, only now she is the one shivering on the floor of the cell while Libby gazes down at her from the outside. Her expression is cold and impassive. Early on, in the restaurant, at the hospital, Sara had looked right past her, but Libby—Libby had seen her all along.

Sara opens her eyes and pours herself a glass of bourbon. She downs it in a single gulp.

_The relationship you developed with Libby Hatch was a necessary one, but more critically, it was a natural one. You came to understand her thoughts and her patterns of behavior. You identified with her and felt empathy for her situation. But for your own sake, you must detach yourself; you must find a way to untangle yourself from her—_

_Untangle myself._ What does he know of it? She wants to smash the empty glass. She settles for pouring herself more bourbon instead. Even now, she cannot quite shake the feeling of being watched. She stands up and wanders through her empty office—the women have long since left for the night—and she sees it as Libby would have seen it. Opening desk drawers, tucking her father’s gun away in her purse, erasing her name on the chalkboard. She needed Sara to know she had been there. She needed her to see.

_—you must find a way to untangle yourself from her, difficult though that may be. You must not allow her to cloud your judgment. Keep your mind clear and focused. Do not lose yourself in her._

She imagines herself walking through the old Hunter home, traveling weightlessly down the darkened hallways. When she had gone there with John and Laszlo to find Libby and Clara, the house had felt both foreign and entirely familiar, as though she had passed through there many times before. She knew what was behind each door before she opened it. Now she hears a baby crying somewhere nearby and she shudders but does not stop. She fixes her attention on the faint light at the end of the hall and her heartbeat quickens. Libby is waiting for her there.

She steps into the room. A girl with red hair is dancing in her nightgown, spinning in graceful circles in front of a large mirror. She takes no notice of the woman frozen in her doorway.

“Libby,” she says softly. Without thinking, she holds out her hand and the girl pauses mid-spin, eyes wide. She looks right through Sara—for once, unable to see her.

Sara blinks. The Hunter house and Libby vanish and she finds herself standing alone in her office with her hand outstretched. The glass of bourbon lies shattered on the floor, its contents seeping into the wood.

**

The trial drags on for a few days longer, but neither the verdict nor the punishment is ever in doubt. Sara sits in the courtroom and gazes at the back of Libby’s head as the jury foreman finds her guilty on all charges and the judge pronounces the death sentence, to be carried out by electric chair in three days’ time. Libby does not flinch or make a sound.

“You think the governor will commute the sentence?” Bitsy whispers beside her.

“No,” she answers. There will be no mercy for Elspeth Hunter. Examples must be made, sins must be paid in full, and the natural order restored. In seventy-two hours, the audience will file into the execution chamber and sit in rows as they would at the opera or a three-cent freak show. A hush will fall over the room as the star is ushered on stage to take her seat and speak a few lines—followed in short order by the main attraction; the moment they all have been waiting for.

With the spectacle complete, the stunned audience will gather their hats and coats and shuffle out into the street. The star of the show will exit the stage in a coffin. The electrician will check the equipment and the cleaning girl will sweep away the human debris to ensure everything will be ready for the next performance. On and on and on it goes.

It is already late by the time they return to the office, and she sends Bitsy home even though there is still plenty of work left to be done. "Anything wrong, Miss Howard?" Bitsy asks her uneasily, concern written all over her face.

She smiles. "I'll see you in the morning, Bitsy."

After she leaves, Sara hangs up her hat, peels off her gloves, and unbraids her hair. She walks through the office door and into the prison where Libby is spending her last few nights on earth.

“You came,” Libby says. Her voice echoes in the darkness; it weaves its way through the cracks in the battered plaster walls and disappears. Soon there will be no sign she was ever there. “I always knew you would.”

Sara looks down at the key in her hand and back up at Libby. “I must be dreaming,” she says. She isn’t sure whose dream this is. She isn't sure if it matters.

Libby does not answer. She thrusts her thin fingers through the bars towards Sara, hovering just inches from her face. After a moment of hesitation, she steps forward and presses Libby’s hand to her cheek. She thinks her fingers should be icy cold, like a phantom, but instead she finds her warm and solid and real.

“It's all right, Sara,” Libby whispers. “I used to be scared too. But there’s nothing to be afraid of, really. Nothing at all.”

Sara turns the key in the lock.


End file.
